


Paresthesia

by Dracavia



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Finding your home, Gen, M/M, Post Traumatic Stress, Pre-Slash, Recovery, building relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracavia/pseuds/Dracavia
Summary: He wakes and Rey is gone, but Poe is there, sitting at his side. His hand on Finn's is an anchor grounding him as his head spins to take in everything that's happened since he passed out in that snow.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw Rogue One last night and it prompted me to dig this poor neglected story out of my google docs, where it's languished since January. Rogue One was fabulous, but it left me craving something a little softer, so here we go. My bit of fluff to add to the Stormpilot ship.

He wakes and Rey is gone, but Poe is there, sitting at his side. His hand on Finn's is an anchor grounding him as his head spins to take in everything that's happened since he passed out in that snow.

The snow.

He tries to keep his breathing normal, because this is how he ended up on the run in the first place. Captain Phasma had witnessed his weakness, had seen a flaw in him that needed to be stamped out. Finn had seen people go into reconditioning before. When they came out the flaws were gone, but so was everything that made them an individual.

The only way to stay him and not become _them_ was to run, and thinking about the snow he wanted to run again. But he _couldn't_ , once more his flaws failed him and he was trapped in this bed. Unable to run, unable to hide, unable to fight.

“Finn!”

Poe’s voice sounds like it's coming from a world away even as he calls for him again. The blood is rushing in his ears, drowning Poe out. And then he's not at the rebel base on D’Qar, he's back on the Finalizer after Jakku.

He can't catch his breath, his skin is clammy and his palms tingle. He needs to hide, or Phasma will find him. Find out he didn't fire his blaster _again_. Find out he didn't follow orders, _couldn't_ bring himself to pull the trigger. Find out he didn't put his loyalty to the First Order above his own squeamishness at what he'd clearly been told to do. She'll find out he’s flawed and then-

There's a sharp pinch at his neck and Finn’s back in the bed on D’Qar. He's Finn again, not FN-2187, and everything is getting dark around the edges.

“That's it buddy, sleep it off,” he could hear Poe murmur, and once more he could feel the hand anchoring his, even through the tingling in his palms.

He held on tight as he succumbed to the drugs running through his veins.

~*~*~*~*~*~

A panic attack, that's what the medic - a specialist in healing of the mind - had called it.

And that was going to take a while to get used to, that the Resistance had medics specifically for the mind. In the First Order there'd just been reprogramming, and if you were too far gone for that... disposal.

After they got back to the base from Maz's, Finn had heard comments in the mess about how easily troopers fell to blaster fire. They seemed to think it was a flaw in the design of the armour, sloppy workmanship on the part of first the Empire and then the First Order. They didn't understand the truth, that it was intentional.

Finn would never forget the dressing down Phasma had given him when he'd insisted on helping Slip during their training exercises. She said the life of a stormtrooper was designed to separate the wheat from the chaff, and by helping FN-2003 - she'd have never called him Slip herself - he was just delaying the inevitable. That the First Order was made stronger for the sifting.

Finn wondered if she really believed that. Part of him thought she resented that Slip had a name. Sure it was because he was the clumsiest of their training unit, but it was more of a name than Eight-Seven, Zeros or Nines. Stormtroopers weren't supposed to have names, that was something that promoted individualism, but stormtroopers weren't individuals. That was the real reason for armour that was little better than toughened cloth and a regulator. Why they were required to wear the uniform to do anything but eat, sleep and bathe.

One stormtrooper would fall and another nameless, faceless soldier took their place. It created the illusion that the First Order had an endless supply to fill their ranks. It was an intimidation tactic against both their enemies and their own people, and it worked.

The tingling starting in his hands snapped Finn out of his musings, and he rubbed his palms together briskly, trying to make it go away as he focused on breathing slowly and evenly.

The door opened and Finn looked up to see Poe standing there, smiling his infectiously bright smile as he carried a pair of mess trays.

“Hey buddy, feeling up to some lunch?”

Finn pasted on a smile of his own, even though it felt tight and strange. How couldn't he smile in the wake of Poe’s own enthusiasm?

“Yeah, come on in and sit.”

And if their hands found each other's as they ate, if that firm grip chased away the tingling and breathlessness… Well Finn had done enough reflecting for one day, he wasn't ready to think about that yet.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Finn had to hand it to the Resistance medics, they were thorough.

Physical therapy for his back, and the specialist medic for his... ‘trauma’ she'd called it. Privately Finn still just thought of it as ‘life’. Maybe that was part of why he was still required to see her. That and the damn tingling that kept coming back.

He'd worried at first that it was some sort of permanent nerve damage from his back. It had slowly started happening less and less, but it would come back alongside the shortness of breath and the knot in his stomach, sometimes at the most unexpected of times. Finn said something to the medic about it, who gave him a full check and assured him his back was healing perfectly.

The next time the specialist came by she asked him about it.

Stress, she said, the prelude to a panic attack. It was why she was there to help.

He didn't know what to say at first, but she had a way about her. Finn didn't think he'd ever talked to someone so much in the whole of his life.

And slowly it was sinking in: That he would never be returned to the First Order. That the Resistance cared about individuals. That there were people that cared about _him_. He wasn't sure he could say there was anyone that had between being taken from his family and escaping the First Order.

Slip had been the closest thing he had to a friend, and yet he was a better soldier than FN-2187. Slip had pulled the trigger in Pressylla when Finn hadn't been able to. Would no doubt have pulled it on Jakku if he hadn't died first. He’d faced Phasma’s wrath more than once for helping or protecting Slip during training, but he couldn’t say Slip would ever have done the same for him. Slip was a loyal soldier and Finn had no doubt he’d have thought him just as much a traitor as Nines had.

But could you really be a traitor to a cause you had never voluntarily sworn yourself to? Was being a bad soldier when you didn’t believe in that cause really a bad thing? That had been one of the many things he’d discussed with the specialist. That you could be a good man by the very virtue being a poor soldier.

“You've got that look on your face again.”

“Poe!” He hadn't even noticed the other arrive. Finn frowned as the words sunk in. “What look?”

“Like you're unstuck in time again.” At Finn’s confused look, Poe gestured to his own head. “Lost in your memories.”

“Oh, yeah, maybe a bit.”

“Well let's ground you in the now with some new memories. Ready to see your new digs?”

“The quartermaster hasn't been by yet…”

“No, no, I've sorted it all. Your room’s ready and waiting for you. Got you one in the pilot’s wing, thought you'd like being in amongst some more familiar faces.”

“Oh, yeah, that'd be… That’d be good, thanks.”

Finn got up and followed Poe through the base, trying to memorise the twists and turns to ensure he could find his way back when he needed to. He was concentrating so hard he nearly ran into Poe's back when the pilot came to a sudden stop in front of a door in yet another nondescript hallway.

“Easy there,” Poe said, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “Now this is my room,” and Finn noticed the name plaques by the doors for the first time. This one read ‘Commander Poe Dameron’.

“And this here is yours.”

They’d stepped down to the next door, and beside it was another plaque that simply read ‘Finn’. He looked at the other doors around, and each one bore a name and title at least as long as Poe's. His looked rather bare by comparison, but that wasn't the important thing.

Poe palmed the lock and gestured Finn in ahead of him. The room was spartan, but Finn was used to that, and the imperfections in the paint and furniture made it feel warm and lived in, even if there was nothing to say who did the living. It was everything the barracks in the First Order were not.

There were some rather generic clothes stacked on the desk, no doubt Poe got his size from the medics. Remembering details like that was one of the reasons Poe was a good Commander. And then he saw it.

The leather jacket - _Poe's_ jacket - lay on the bed, looking no worse for wear. As though the events on Star Killer Base had never happened. As though the snow and cold and burn of the light saber were nothing but a bad dream.

It was the hand that gripped his tightly that made him aware of the tingling starting and his shortness of breath. It prompted Finn to start counting his breaths in his head as he’d been taught. In 1...2...3... out 1...2...3...

“I'm sorry…” Still holding Finn’s hand, Poe moved to block the sight of the jacket with his own body. There was a worried frown on his face, as he studied Finn's own. “I got it fixed for you, but it didn't even occur to me that you wouldn't want it back. I'll get rid of it.”

“No!” The vehemence of the word startled them both. “No,” Finn said softer, and he let go of Poe’s hand to walk around and pick up the jacket. “I just wasn't expecting to see it again. I thought someone would have thrown it away.”

He studied the back of the jacket, and that's when he realised it wasn't unmarked. The burnt leather had been neatly trimmed away, and a new piece had been stitched carefully into place to make it whole again. Not unmarked, but with a bit of time and care, made whole once more.

Poe's hand rested on his shoulder, helping ground him again. “You sure? I promise I won't be insulted if you don't want it anymore.”

Finn looked up from the jacket, a small but genuine smile upon his face. “I'm sure. It's the first gift I've ever been given. That's not something to just throw away because it's seen a few knocks.”

“That's certainly true.” Finn felt the squeeze to his shoulder and knew neither of them was talking about just the jacket anymore.

Finn pulled the jacket on, and it fit just as well as before. Poe bit his lip as he smoothed the shoulders and front of the jacket out. “I did say it looked better on you than me. Still does.”

“Thank you…” Poe looked at him curiously. “For caring enough to take the time to help fix it.”

Poe grinned brightly at that, and Finn couldn't help but smile back. Finn's stomach did a little flip, but it was the good kind. The kind of shiver that helped chase away the cold of remembered snow.

Looking into that smile, wearing this jacket, that was when Finn truly knew and believed; for the first time since his childhood. He was home.


End file.
